“Promise me that you'll remember me always
Remember that I existed
Remember me like this
Remember that you and I made this journey
That we came to paradise on earth
And I was standing here besides you on this day and saying this”
These words still haunt me with the melancholy of a Mendelssohn solo
They still seem to echo and linger, nine years later
Still reluctant to let go of me
The bridge is still there
And the shikaras and the frozen lake
And the sky mountain people who glow pink in the mellowed afternoon sun
The sunset is there on Sundays
I've been there on a few
Everything is not the same there but it's still there
At the same place
When I was here with her, I didn't pay that much attention to her words or the scene
For I took them for granted
I thought they would last forever
I never imagined, that one day, nine years later,
I would try desperately to recall it in detail
I have no trouble with the kahva sellers, the shikaras, the snow and the meadowlark
These I can draw with my fingers on a misty windowpane if need be
But I can't bring back her face that easily
I'll not lie
What used to be inscribed permanently on the laboratory of my mind
And what I could recall anytime, by just closing my eyes for a second;
Has now started taking longer
Acetylene neurons fire high voltage impulses into my fore-brain
And then it trickles instead of oozes,
Her memories: bit by bit
And I struggle to join the images like a jigsaw....
Flaring nostril: pierced.
And ears too, each, twice over
Pink punk rock volume 2 hair
Two 'R's tattooed just a little above her bikini line
The oversize snake-skin jacket she wore everywhere with ripped jeans
And her
Gothic,
Kohl- lined,
Gum- chewing eyes
But beneath her Pirate girl veneer
She was a seventeen year old girl, denying herself that she was in love with me
Or so, I've always liked to think
And as we walked along that day, Winnie spoke to me about Tibet.
Was that it?
Winnie Chatterjee
She said-
“I prefer 'She said she said'”
That was so like her
'Existential motifs in Tibetan book of the dead'
And then, 'The relative merits of two John Lennon songs from Revolver'
Segueing from one topic to another
With a wave of her hand or a toss of her head
Arguing passionately, nudging me playfully with her elbows
How strange then that it's only her words that one really recalls
Amidst a million things that have vanished,
All that remains
Are a non sequitur, a repartee or two;
And that odd sentence on pop songs about death
I am, at times, still capable of being astonished by her
Vineeta Chatterjee may be the most famous woman on the East
Her films may be seen for centuries
But for me
She is still Winnie
Appearing nine years ago, in her brother's snake-skin jacket
And then on, in dreams
And she is Winnie, the superstar, standing before me right now
Signing autographs and contracts with the same distaste
As if to punish me
She has aged dramatically over the last decade
Yes, she is still graceful and regal and even sexy
But one is reluctant to note that she is suddenly, no longer beautiful
The beautiful one is lost forever to the world
And I'm sure in a few days
Even to me
I dread but I know that her face will vanish one day
Like a dream upon awakening
That one day all my memories of her will get lost in the woods somewhere
And I'll not be able to find her again
But for now, I do
And surprisingly, I feel; the more rapidly she fades inside me,
The more deeply I'm able to understand her
And therefore, I realize, I continue to write
For if nothing better,
It makes me think of her
Monday, October 26, 2009
SHERLOCK HOLMES IN LOVE
Across 221 B, Baker Street is a twenty four hour Starbucks
That, in the London fog, appears metaphorical-
The mannequin air hostesses; CHATTING,
the varsity students; READING,
the leg- flashing escort girls; SERENADING,
the call center yuppies; EATING
the stressed waitress; forcing smiles as stale as their coffee, into their cups,
and others who're obviously Moriarty's men in disguise
As different as these people are,
Everything about them is illusory and incidental
I look closely
Some of them don't even have faces
Perhaps they're merely part of another story, a bigger story
Someone else's story..
…...
She isn't conventionally beautiful
She wears thick rimmed, black glasses over her eyes
I think, not only to read the book
But also to conceal the dark circles underneath them
Fleetingly visible when she looks up into the diffused light
The book is wrapped in a makeshift newspaper cover
Shrouding it in as much mystery as its reader
She could be anything from seventeen to thirty
But by the thickness of the book
And the way her eyebrows lovingly frown when concentrating,
Thus making faint lines on her copyright forehead,
I infer that she is exactly twenty six years, two months and three days
The translucent windowpane makes her face appear distorted;
Like italics
Or a lopsided smile
She could be Mediterranean, Latin American, even from the Middle East
Her nose is small, hardly formed, very Oriental
However, with her eyes, which exude a very intellectual sensuality
And the newspaper: 'The Statesman',
I gather that she is from India; more specifically, Calcutta
The air hostesses stare at her.
Others surreptitiously glance.
Like she has tattoos on her face or something
But she hardly ever looks up
She is not skimming through the book; rather she seems engrossed in it
And uninterested in her lukewarm coffee and the virtually untouched croissant
From this and the depth to which the parsley has sunk into the butter
I perceive she's ordered these just to buy privacy
Than for their functionality as food groups
Plus, she's had better
Also from all this hullabaloo
And her blue jeans, faded; not from the store, but from repeated washing,
Below her white, oversize man's shirt,
Peeping from under her black cardigan,
That tries to desperately to be anonymous
But for the unmistakable Versace monogram upon it;
I deduce that she is an actress
From her bottle of Perrier,
I extrapolate the existence of the Pacific ocean
Really now....
But then again-
Why are we interested in her?
Why not someone else?
I don't know.
For some reason, she commands our unwavering attention,
As though is is presumed.
Hers is the story we have to follow
Maybe because
Something tells us
She would know that Mont Blanc is pronounced 'Maw Bleau'
She wouldn't laugh during Tati's comedies, recognizing them instead as tragedies
She would rather write a rock song than have one written for
She wouldn't think that all men who write prose are pretentious
She would rather read JG Ballard than Mills & Boons
She would rather have incognito coffee at Starbucks than lose herself in Hilton crowds
Something tells us
Her name starts with a W
And though occasionally, the book makes her smile
She is broken.
I deduce this
From a slow tear that has spilled her coffee
And left its imprint
On the fringes of her eyes
On her finger, the second one from the left, on her left hand;
There is a bandage
That either
(a) conceals a wedding ring, or
(b) dresses a wound.
But either way,
It doesn't stop her bleeding
That, in the London fog, appears metaphorical-
The mannequin air hostesses; CHATTING,
the varsity students; READING,
the leg- flashing escort girls; SERENADING,
the call center yuppies; EATING
the stressed waitress; forcing smiles as stale as their coffee, into their cups,
and others who're obviously Moriarty's men in disguise
As different as these people are,
Everything about them is illusory and incidental
I look closely
Some of them don't even have faces
Perhaps they're merely part of another story, a bigger story
Someone else's story..
…...
She isn't conventionally beautiful
She wears thick rimmed, black glasses over her eyes
I think, not only to read the book
But also to conceal the dark circles underneath them
Fleetingly visible when she looks up into the diffused light
The book is wrapped in a makeshift newspaper cover
Shrouding it in as much mystery as its reader
She could be anything from seventeen to thirty
But by the thickness of the book
And the way her eyebrows lovingly frown when concentrating,
Thus making faint lines on her copyright forehead,
I infer that she is exactly twenty six years, two months and three days
The translucent windowpane makes her face appear distorted;
Like italics
Or a lopsided smile
She could be Mediterranean, Latin American, even from the Middle East
Her nose is small, hardly formed, very Oriental
However, with her eyes, which exude a very intellectual sensuality
And the newspaper: 'The Statesman',
I gather that she is from India; more specifically, Calcutta
The air hostesses stare at her.
Others surreptitiously glance.
Like she has tattoos on her face or something
But she hardly ever looks up
She is not skimming through the book; rather she seems engrossed in it
And uninterested in her lukewarm coffee and the virtually untouched croissant
From this and the depth to which the parsley has sunk into the butter
I perceive she's ordered these just to buy privacy
Than for their functionality as food groups
Plus, she's had better
Also from all this hullabaloo
And her blue jeans, faded; not from the store, but from repeated washing,
Below her white, oversize man's shirt,
Peeping from under her black cardigan,
That tries to desperately to be anonymous
But for the unmistakable Versace monogram upon it;
I deduce that she is an actress
From her bottle of Perrier,
I extrapolate the existence of the Pacific ocean
Really now....
But then again-
Why are we interested in her?
Why not someone else?
I don't know.
For some reason, she commands our unwavering attention,
As though is is presumed.
Hers is the story we have to follow
Maybe because
Something tells us
She would know that Mont Blanc is pronounced 'Maw Bleau'
She wouldn't laugh during Tati's comedies, recognizing them instead as tragedies
She would rather write a rock song than have one written for
She wouldn't think that all men who write prose are pretentious
She would rather read JG Ballard than Mills & Boons
She would rather have incognito coffee at Starbucks than lose herself in Hilton crowds
Something tells us
Her name starts with a W
And though occasionally, the book makes her smile
She is broken.
I deduce this
From a slow tear that has spilled her coffee
And left its imprint
On the fringes of her eyes
On her finger, the second one from the left, on her left hand;
There is a bandage
That either
(a) conceals a wedding ring, or
(b) dresses a wound.
But either way,
It doesn't stop her bleeding
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
MY BEST FRIEND, HIS GIRLFRIEND AND HER LOVER
Dots and designs of sandalwood mark her forehead
Crimson is the color of her silk Saree and that of her eyes, too
The mascara is slightly running down her eyelashes and caking her makeup
Twenty Two carat gold bangles adorn her wrists and her head is covered
In minutes from now, she is also expected to cover her face, with a betel leaf
While being carried in a small charpoy on the shoulders of her brothers
And encircled around her unsuspecting, 'to be' husband
Then the women will throw rice on the couple and blow on seashells
And in these few, incongruous moments
Which later, she knows she will never be able to recall properly
She will become Mrs Amarnath Chatterjee....
Presently, the sound of Shehnai commingling with Rabindra Sangeet, falls on her ears
She is looking like the idol of the Goddess Durga; beautiful, but inanimate
Choti is outside, knocking on the bedroom door, “Would you please hurry up?”
Ma and Baba are anxiously awaiting in the terrycloth wedding palace
That is by now, smelling heavily, of incense, marigold and butter
Amar, mildly amused by the inscrutable ceremonies, is adjusting his 'topor',
Somnath Da, adjusting his pink turban, is receiving the gift carrying guests at the gate
Her brothers' wives are seated around the burning fire,
Their chiffons sticking to their bodies in the heat
The guests have just begun their third round of Black & White and Reshmi Kebabs
Her in-laws, unaccustomed to wearing 'Dhutis', are sitting on the floor besides the priest
The priest is mumbling that the auspicious hour is fast passing them by
Maqbool is inside the bedroom, holding her hand, refusing to let go....
Thirty seconds ago, they had broken their forty second kiss
He still kissed like an adolescent, and she, still tasted like laingda mangoes
She adjusts her Saree; carefully
It's parting is still rumpled by his touch
She applies more lipstick; guiltily
Her mouth, still wet with his saliva
PART 2
He looks at her with his sky blue eyes and says,
There are going to be days
When I'm going to be needing just your body
When I'll hate you for asking Baba for money
When I'm not going to talk to you for days afterwards because of that
When I'll think of inventing new ways to hurt you
When I'll scream at you for forgetting to wake me up for the Champions League final
When I'll masturbate to Nicole Kidman in our bathroom
When I'll forget your thirty seventh birthday
When I'll suspect you of having an affair with Mr. Sukumar Bose on the second floor
When I'll smash the crystal flower vase against the bedroom wall
Come away with me
She wants to tell him,
There are going to be days
When you'll see me for whole weeks without make up
When I'll fantasize about Ankur Malhotra while in your caress
When I'll refuse to sleep with you for twenty four days after you flirt with Sonali Di
When I'll be repulsed by your touch after you decide not to have a baby in our third year
When I'll slap you for disrespecting my father
When I'll not allow you to watch the Seinfeld reruns on Sunday afternoons
When I'll say after reading the Winnie series that your poetry is pretentious
When I'll think that our ultimate, Bollywood style, runaway, wedding was a mistake
Take me away with you
Leave the necklace in the closet
Leave the winter in the ground
Leave the past all behind you
Leave the relatives, open mouthed
He pulls her closer to him and starts removing her Saree
One end of it is knotted on the back door and the other draped over the balcony
No one notices the two surreptitiously leaving the two storey house
The Royal Enfield is parked around the corner
Several Friends, a registrar, two marigold garlands and a three room penthouse
Are waiting in
Within seven hours, they will be reaching there
Then for the years to come, they're going to regale their children with stories,
About the night Baba ran off with their Ma
But for now, they drive silently, onto the Highway, into their future
PART 2
Vineeta is suddenly forty three
She has been married to Amar for seventeen years now
Maqbool, you should know that during this time, there are days
When he hesitantly holds her right hand while she cries during Pather Panchali
When he tries to make Colombian omelets she craves for during their year in
When he takes a weekend off from work to take Baba out for golf after Ma dies
When he cleans her vomit from the hall floor after she's had one Bloody Mary too many
When he insists on buying her Japanese food from
So much so that she starts looking forward to them
It is in brief moments such as these-
That Vineeta is overwhelmed that she has chosen him
“You are
Something else”
She says once in a while
They can now resume conversations they left mid sentence, months ago
Those occasional long, long distance PCO conversations with you, notwithstanding
Her love for you is fading
Drying up, just like her now
Yes, she does think about you during some sunsets and occasional monsoon afternoons
But largely, she thinks that
You are so like a poem; intelligent but incomprehensible, beautiful but inanimate
But her tears are real
The sex is real
Rhea is real
So, now in their bed room
Amar and Winnie soak in the sunset
As if they are one person, sharing one soul, one fear, one future, one silence and one bed
In a few moments from now,
She will look out of the window and imagine seeing your face
But just then Amar would awaken and pull her back into his embrace
And for a few blissful moments after that
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
"THE ACTRESS" aka "THE MARILYN MONROE SYNDROME" aka "STANISLASKY, WHO?"
My name is Vineeta Chatterjee
I’m twenty seven, female, sexy and lost
I work in the movies by day and write poetry at night
Six hundred and twenty seconds ago, I consumed hundred milligrams of prussic acid
It kills usually in an hour
But if taken on an empty stomach; a lot sooner
My stomach is empty
I've not had anything for two days
But sadness
Anir wanted his malnourished prostitute to look real
He doesn't know anything
I think I've become anorexic
I look in the mirror
This no make up look scares me
I need the blush and the mascara now
Not just to enhance me but somehow to define me
Once, I was sexy as hell
Now my soul feels naked
Without the concealer cheekbones
The glycerin eyes
And the waterproof makeup
I almost smile as I think of what you would’ve said to that
But the Botox has made it difficult for my lips to make the journey
Moreover, there are these new faint laugh lines under my eyes
And therefore, I convince myself, that I should not smile anymore
For ironically, my happiness makes me sad
There's a tiny pimple between my eyes
But I'm sure it'll be gone tomorrow
By then I want you to stand over my casket
And say that I look beautiful
Even with my sky blue lips
In this claustrophobic vanity van
It is as quiet as a tomb.
I'm waiting for the shot to be called
Wouldn't they hurry up, please?
I say to myself
“Open your eyes”
I have so many unfinished scenes left
But he has left nothing behind
Except for the residue of him
Dead good looking
In beauty's spring
Dried up on the satin seat covers
I sip my last cup of tea
Full bodied, freshly brewed Darjeeling
The steam rises lazily from the cup and arouses memories of my childhood
Maqbool’s memories
And that spent- together winter in Manali, our one getaway
And the tea on the porch there
Why did you love me?
Because you actually liked me
And my allegedly irresistible dimples
Maqbool-
To you,
I bequeath my writings
And your fantastic verse which inspired me to write
And to which I listened to bravely,
Not because I looked for the truth in them
But because I looked on them as racy, juicy paperbacks
And occasionally because they were about me
Of course, also because I loved you
I think I don’t miss
Your face,
That was sometimes handsome, sometimes just strange
Your hands
That were so big that my wrists used to get locked in them
Or even your scandalous lips
That liked to kiss me like an adolescent
But I quite miss your eyes
I search for them everywhere-
Alone,
in a crowd,
in every stranger,
in every sudden smile,
in every vigorous handshake,
in every helpful look,
in every flirtatious gaze,
But I haven’t seen anything like them again,
Warm, playful and sweet
Like the wild blackberries I remember from my thirteen year old hikes to Rudraprayag
And so I've tried reliving you through my verse,
You used to love words
No one but you, could cause such bloodshed through a single sentence
No one but you, could hurt me so much
No one but you, could quote Keats while giving me oral pleasure
No one but you, could sing just like John Lennon
No one but you, could kiss me when I screamed
No one but you, could understand my pain. And my prose
Max, I still bear scars from that skating accident....
Now, Anir is calling me for scene 42
But I want you and everyone to know
That when I cry tonight
These tears will be real
I’m twenty seven, female, sexy and lost
I work in the movies by day and write poetry at night
Six hundred and twenty seconds ago, I consumed hundred milligrams of prussic acid
It kills usually in an hour
But if taken on an empty stomach; a lot sooner
My stomach is empty
I've not had anything for two days
But sadness
Anir wanted his malnourished prostitute to look real
He doesn't know anything
I think I've become anorexic
I look in the mirror
This no make up look scares me
I need the blush and the mascara now
Not just to enhance me but somehow to define me
Once, I was sexy as hell
Now my soul feels naked
Without the concealer cheekbones
The glycerin eyes
And the waterproof makeup
I almost smile as I think of what you would’ve said to that
But the Botox has made it difficult for my lips to make the journey
Moreover, there are these new faint laugh lines under my eyes
And therefore, I convince myself, that I should not smile anymore
For ironically, my happiness makes me sad
There's a tiny pimple between my eyes
But I'm sure it'll be gone tomorrow
By then I want you to stand over my casket
And say that I look beautiful
Even with my sky blue lips
In this claustrophobic vanity van
It is as quiet as a tomb.
I'm waiting for the shot to be called
Wouldn't they hurry up, please?
I say to myself
“Open your eyes”
I have so many unfinished scenes left
But he has left nothing behind
Except for the residue of him
Dead good looking
In beauty's spring
Dried up on the satin seat covers
I sip my last cup of tea
Full bodied, freshly brewed Darjeeling
The steam rises lazily from the cup and arouses memories of my childhood
Maqbool’s memories
And that spent- together winter in Manali, our one getaway
And the tea on the porch there
Why did you love me?
Because you actually liked me
And my allegedly irresistible dimples
Maqbool-
To you,
I bequeath my writings
And your fantastic verse which inspired me to write
And to which I listened to bravely,
Not because I looked for the truth in them
But because I looked on them as racy, juicy paperbacks
And occasionally because they were about me
Of course, also because I loved you
I think I don’t miss
Your face,
That was sometimes handsome, sometimes just strange
Your hands
That were so big that my wrists used to get locked in them
Or even your scandalous lips
That liked to kiss me like an adolescent
But I quite miss your eyes
I search for them everywhere-
Alone,
in a crowd,
in every stranger,
in every sudden smile,
in every vigorous handshake,
in every helpful look,
in every flirtatious gaze,
But I haven’t seen anything like them again,
Warm, playful and sweet
Like the wild blackberries I remember from my thirteen year old hikes to Rudraprayag
And so I've tried reliving you through my verse,
You used to love words
No one but you, could cause such bloodshed through a single sentence
No one but you, could hurt me so much
No one but you, could quote Keats while giving me oral pleasure
No one but you, could sing just like John Lennon
No one but you, could kiss me when I screamed
No one but you, could understand my pain. And my prose
Max, I still bear scars from that skating accident....
Now, Anir is calling me for scene 42
But I want you and everyone to know
That when I cry tonight
These tears will be real
POLLY SAID HER BACK HURTS
….
Polly said,
“Your poems are too long and repetitive
Your films are pretentious
Your trousers are woefully out of fashion
Your hairstyle is outrageous
Your parents were in love with different people
You're the one who killed your grandfather that July
For years, your mother longed to see you. But you were never there
You sing like a girl and you kiss like an adolescent
Winnie was fucking Mandy the whole year you were in Florence
Her love had faded long ago”
….
ONE
The ceiling fan billows the white sheet
Giving an illusion of breathing inside
It is such a tempting illusion....
Looking a bit like one of Sarat Chandra's heroes
He's sitting quietly in a corner
Like the malignant tumor with folded hands
Camouflaging his tears with his dimpled smile
But the rouge of his eyes, like welts from a belt
Betray him from under his brown- black eyeglasses
You don't fool me, brother....
The doctor says, “Well of course, he has to cry”
He hasn't spoken a word since the morning of the ninth
It intrigues me
His cold blooded silence
I miss the sound of his voice
That's like a cross between his father and John Lennon
Raspy, but not shrill; boyish but not naive; accented but not heavily
I also miss his precious smile
I remember, when we were children, he laughed,
When I kept asking questions during the bedtime stories he so skillfully narrated at nights
Or when I tickled his feet to wake him up in the mornings
Or when I showed him the salsa that I thought then that I had mastered
Maybe I'll bake him his favorite, slightly salty, flour biscuits with tea in the afternoon
Maybe I'll flash him a smile, a quick glance of my cleavage, hold his hands tight
Maybe I'll let him give me a back massage and then....
Anything to draw him out
Of the bedroom of denial he has locked himself in
TWO
To tell you the truth, my eyes this morning were red;
More from the lack of sleep on my flight
Than grief
That, I guess, had not sunk in then
I wonder if I scream tonight
Will anyone be able to hear me?
Or it'll be like in that dream
Baby, I can't express
My mixed emotions and my helplessness
There are small things I remember from the haze of today
The slicing sound of a devotional song somewhere in the background
The second rate Assam tea being prepared in abundance for the glycerin giving guests
All of whom come up to you and ask, “What's your pain, stranger?”
Your black colored Salwaar Kameez that made you look a pucca Muslim
Our life too will pass like the traces of a tear
And someday after tomorrow
You would no longer catch me unawares
By tickling at my feet
THREE
We drive back home, with you waving us goodbye from the porch
I keep watching you till you melt away in the distance
I have failed you
You still haven't spoken
Or Laughed
Or Cried
I feel the sudden urge to weep
And I wish we could have wept together
FOUR
And still
The silly, sentimental heart craves for
Another world cup,
Another cup of tea,
Another monsoon,
Another moment free
Another Sandesh,
Another happiness,
Another hug,
Another caress
You wrapped me in your arms
With the familiarity of old, warm, winter clothes
Your eyes seemed to say to me
“It is going to be all right”
Polly, you told me so many things
But I have all this pain that I never tell you
Because I think it would shatter you
Even more
It was only after you drove away crying in your Toyota;
Then it was my turn to be staggered.
Polly said,
“Your poems are too long and repetitive
Your films are pretentious
Your trousers are woefully out of fashion
Your hairstyle is outrageous
Your parents were in love with different people
You're the one who killed your grandfather that July
For years, your mother longed to see you. But you were never there
You sing like a girl and you kiss like an adolescent
Winnie was fucking Mandy the whole year you were in Florence
Her love had faded long ago”
….
ONE
The ceiling fan billows the white sheet
Giving an illusion of breathing inside
It is such a tempting illusion....
Looking a bit like one of Sarat Chandra's heroes
He's sitting quietly in a corner
Like the malignant tumor with folded hands
Camouflaging his tears with his dimpled smile
But the rouge of his eyes, like welts from a belt
Betray him from under his brown- black eyeglasses
You don't fool me, brother....
The doctor says, “Well of course, he has to cry”
He hasn't spoken a word since the morning of the ninth
It intrigues me
His cold blooded silence
I miss the sound of his voice
That's like a cross between his father and John Lennon
Raspy, but not shrill; boyish but not naive; accented but not heavily
I also miss his precious smile
I remember, when we were children, he laughed,
When I kept asking questions during the bedtime stories he so skillfully narrated at nights
Or when I tickled his feet to wake him up in the mornings
Or when I showed him the salsa that I thought then that I had mastered
Maybe I'll bake him his favorite, slightly salty, flour biscuits with tea in the afternoon
Maybe I'll flash him a smile, a quick glance of my cleavage, hold his hands tight
Maybe I'll let him give me a back massage and then....
Anything to draw him out
Of the bedroom of denial he has locked himself in
TWO
To tell you the truth, my eyes this morning were red;
More from the lack of sleep on my flight
Than grief
That, I guess, had not sunk in then
I wonder if I scream tonight
Will anyone be able to hear me?
Or it'll be like in that dream
Baby, I can't express
My mixed emotions and my helplessness
There are small things I remember from the haze of today
The slicing sound of a devotional song somewhere in the background
The second rate Assam tea being prepared in abundance for the glycerin giving guests
All of whom come up to you and ask, “What's your pain, stranger?”
Your black colored Salwaar Kameez that made you look a pucca Muslim
Our life too will pass like the traces of a tear
And someday after tomorrow
You would no longer catch me unawares
By tickling at my feet
THREE
We drive back home, with you waving us goodbye from the porch
I keep watching you till you melt away in the distance
I have failed you
You still haven't spoken
Or Laughed
Or Cried
I feel the sudden urge to weep
And I wish we could have wept together
FOUR
And still
The silly, sentimental heart craves for
Another world cup,
Another cup of tea,
Another monsoon,
Another moment free
Another Sandesh,
Another happiness,
Another hug,
Another caress
You wrapped me in your arms
With the familiarity of old, warm, winter clothes
Your eyes seemed to say to me
“It is going to be all right”
Polly, you told me so many things
But I have all this pain that I never tell you
Because I think it would shatter you
Even more
It was only after you drove away crying in your Toyota;
Then it was my turn to be staggered.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
“MEET ME IN MONTAUK....”
MY BEDROOM-
Very concise, very whimsical, very self centered, very you
When I heard you on my bedroom phone's answering machine
In that instant I came to dread your voice
But I admit I was intrigued
Why did you want to meet me? Suddenly and Immediately?
Did you want more money?
Did you want back the mahogany roll top Baba had given us?
Were you having trouble with the Chevy again?
Had you still taken that part in Motley Theater's Traveling Troupe?
Were you missing me, despite your best intentions?
Did you change your mind, wanting to contest for custody?
Were you dying of cancer?
MONTAUK-
Winnie's
I'm devastated, angry but also mildly amused
That all this while that I've been wallowing in your thoughts
You've been systematically getting over me
Auditioning for cameos on daytime television
Signing the withdrawal forms of all our joint accounts
Interviewing nannies to take care of Ronnie
Actively seeking out companionship at twenty seven
Glancing playfully at handsome men who smile at you
Going to Italian restaurants in the turquoise blue Cavalli gown I gave you last winter
Meeting Upamanyu in one of them
Sleeping with him on our bed
Calling an attorney on the morning after
Exhausted from the gratifying sex
The aftermath still running between your thighs
And then sending me a voice message
Imagining to yourself with a smile as to how this would totally crush me....
“I THINK HE LOVES ME.... WHAT SHOULD I DO?”
That you were with another man was not as shattering
But the fact that you chose someone who
Doesn't leave the last chocolate chip cookie in the tin for you to discover later
Doesn't strum 'Tell me what you see” when you're too ill or too sad or too tired
Doesn't know that you prefer motorcycling to Ladakh than flying to
Doesn't share your passion for Reader's Digests and Theater of the Absurd
Doesn't hear you whisper in your sleep when you have the 'mute-dying-desert' dream
Doesn't notice that you always first turn to the left side before sleeping
Doesn't realize that that is due to a childhood superstition
Doesn't adore the tricycle accident at three faintly manifesting by your eyebrow
Doesn't draw you over fourteen days and nights in acrylic colors
Doesn't bother with opening doors, pulling chairs, cooking lasagna and writing poetry
But I don't discuss any of these things
Not only because they mean nothing to you
But also because I know that Manu is madly in love with you
“LET'S DO A THREESOME.... BITCH.”
For that's the least I could do for you guys
After all
I taught him how to wear a tie
I taught you how to drive a car
I taught him how to hold chopsticks
I taught you how to ice skate
I taught him how to speak convincingly with a Scottish accent
BARELY LEGAL
Because I was eighteen when I saw it for the first time
Earlier than the average Indian male
And later than my cousin, Digbee
Before that I had only heard it in raucous abuses
Or in scandalous whispers camouflaged in spiraled palms
I think I had also encountered it before
In the bizarre graffiti on lavatory walls
Where, if one has the time and inclination,
One can observe at least fifteen different depictions
Put by pathetic (but surprisingly imaginative) men driven to their perverse extremes
Then of course, there was Jenna Jameson
By the way, we still love you, Jen
Our whole generation does (More so, the 1st year engineers of
Who watched your films at daytime
And changed the world at nights
Therefore, by the 'first time' in the first stanza,
I must actually mean-
Real,
Alive,
In flesh
In fact, even in the moments before then
You were like a locked room mystery
Under your petticoat
Until
You did the unthinkable
The next morning
The sun rose as usual
And the world awoke too
But I was never quite
The same again
I guess, the remarkableness of the first time is that
It only happens once
After that, it's all just the same
And then you take to poetry
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